


Dear M--

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, Lost Decade (Roswell New Mexico), M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, Pining, anti-war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: “You just watched your government blow up a building full of elderly people. Your brain is trying to justify the slaughter so that your government can be right. You want to believe that we’re safe. That goodness prevails. That’s the coldest reality about war. Sometimes you’re just doing what you’re told. Then all of a sudden, things are burning. People are screaming. And then you look around, and you realize that the evil is you.” -- Alex Manes, August 7th, 2018Alex and Michael refuse to let Jesse Manes, Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell, or the US Air Force pull them apart. Alex and Michael wrote 1000 letters to each other between August 2008 and August 2016.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 50
Kudos: 105





	1. 2008 [104,657]

**Author's Note:**

> In a way, this entire fic was written to answer the question I've had since I watched the pilot: in 1x1, why didn’t Alex recognize Michael’s Airstream? And why didn’t Michael know about Alex’s leg?
> 
> Like everything I write, this is political. It digs into anti-Iraq War and anti-Afghanistan War themes not everyone may agree with, which is fine. Just know that it’s going to go there. I marched against the war when I was 12 and every chance I got. I also have had multiple family members and friends serve in this war. I’ve lived in the Middle East and traveled to a third of the countries in it. I have friends in every country in the region because of a US State Department program I volunteer with for women in tech. I speak conversational Arabic. I will get things wrong in writing about all of these experiences -- those of soldiers, those of civilians, those of activists. If I get it really wrong, please tell me and I’ll try to do better. Nothing is going to be simple or easy in this story, but these two men love each other and I promise it will all come out alright. Special shout-out to the 18 Somethings Project (https://18somethingsproject.com), since that’s what finally got me writing this AU that had been fluttering around in my head since summer 2019.
> 
> As for posting schedule -- I'm not going to commit to a timeline I'll then use to beat myself up about not meeting. The pandemic, my political and community work, and the many unpleasant vagaries of going through fertility treatment have knocked me on my butt too much this year for me to say with confidence I'll be posting weekly or twice a week or twice a month. But I've got 30k of this written and I love this story, so it'll get there. Also, I can say I don't write sad endings, but there will be a lot more ups and downs for these two than I usually write. So if you're in the mood for some pining, stomach-twisting angst, and politics, enjoy!

**September 2nd, 2008**  
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Alex chucked the orange at the wall. It _spattered_ with incredibly satisfying violence. He yanked up his BMT trainee uniform’s sleeves where they hung over his wrists and chucked another. Another. Another.

 _Another fucking screaming MTI, another goddamn panic attack_.

He reached into his bag for the beets.

All the veggies were old, past-due, never going to be served to trainees, never going to be made into food for starving, hungry high school kids sleeping in the backs of the trucks they got working with their own two hands.

He chucked the beet so hard it split as red as a burst black eye against the wall, leaving a satisfying smear of purple-scarlet on the concrete. 

Beet. Beet. Beat.

He shook his head, getting out the apples.

No one got why he kept getting himself assigned to kitchen duty. It was usually a punishment assignment -- cooks ate last, cooks worked longest, cooks had the latest hours and the earliest uptime.

But cooks could take the bad food out to the back of the barracks after they stone-faced their way through another dressing down from another _fucking screaming MTI_ and, well, if that’s what it would take for Alex to make it through BMT, it’s what he was going to _fucking_ do.

Two years here, getting trained. Two years over there, getting shot at. 

Then --

He grabbed the old, moldy bread, stomping it into the grainy Texas soil, thick gravel mixing with the oily greys and greens of the mold running through it.

Who even _fucking_ knew if Michael would even _be_ in _fucking Roswell_ when he got back? Would even want anything to do with him, after --

He dug out the big guns -- six massive watermelons he’d hauled here after every meal for the past 2 days, knowing he’d need them, need them more later than anyone needed them now. He heaved one over his shoulder and _threw_ it as hard as he could, out across the open pavement, arcing, arcing -- and missing the wall by a foot, smashing into the gravel beside it and bouncing to red, slimy pieces across the pavement.

The next one hit at eye-level.

Alex felt the strain of it in his arms and upper body, the near-pain finally enough to give him room to think, to feel through what he was thinking.

He could write him a letter. Write it to Maria, address it to M--, get through this -- he could do it. He could get through this. 4 years was just 20% of his life. He could get through this if only --

 _Curly hair. A soft laugh. Warm hands, hot thighs; too-small waist, too big eyes._

He let the watermelon drop, watching it bounce off his foot with barely a flinch.

He _would_ have Michael when he was done. He _knew it_. He would know love anywhere, for all he hadn’t had a lot of experience with it. But he knew he'd seen it in Michael’s eyes.

He just needed to figure out a way to tell him.

\--

> **Sent: September 4th, 2008**  
>  From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> This is the first letter they’re letting us send home and you’re the only one I’m writing. I miss you so much I could hardly breathe, can hardly sleep for it. I can’t wait to touch you again. I will come back for you. Four years from now, my contract is up. Even if you hear nothing from me, I’ll see you at Room 407, the Rodeway Inn in Santa Fe. I’ll be there, whether you’re there or not. September 4th, 2012. 
> 
> I only get a half-sheet of paper, so please, please give this to who it needs to go to.
> 
> All my love to Mimi,
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: September 6th, 2008  
> ** From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Ok, was a little vague in that last letter. Sorry about that. I was just -- anyway. That letter might have been confusing. I just missed hanging out with you in your powder blue truck, and your besties, the Evanses.
> 
> I’m on kitchen duty a lot here but it’s been a week since I last had punishment PT, so that’s pretty nice. Turns out I already knew all of the customs and courtesies from, well, I bet you can guess, so I don’t get a lot of punishment detail. It’s nice to be eating full meals again -- well. Anyway.
> 
> I get to start receiving mail this week. But every single piece of mail is read. I miss you a lot and want to see you as soon as I’m allowed.
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: September 8th, 2008  
> ** From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I got my dog tags today. I think you know how I feel about that. They’re talking about pushing me to Officer Training School, but -- you know how I feel about that too.
> 
> God, I’m sore. All that running on the track wasn’t nothing on running over broken ground here. At least I passed the fitness test on the first day. Benefits of all the punishment runs.
> 
> It looks like I tested well enough on my AVSAP to get into one of the enlisted intelligence roles, maybe career field 1A8X2. It’s a flight crew role, lots of office work and lots of short-notice deployments. My uncle Peter -- Mom’s brother, who was in the Air Force, the one who introduced her and Dad -- used to say that there are old pilots, and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I think I’m going to avoid being bold as much as I possibly can; it seems like the best chance to get out of here in one piece.
> 
> I hope you’re getting these, I know it will be a few days before you can reply, 5 days to get to you, 5 days give or take to get back to me, but God, I miss you.
> 
> Alex
> 
> PS: I can only write one letter a day, and that’s only if I don’t get in trouble. But know I’m thinking about you every day.

\--

>   
> **Sent: September 9th, 2008**  
>  From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> Your letter got to me just in time. I’m only in town one day a week, and that’s only if I’m lucky, since I got the job at the ranch. 
> 
> I had no idea when I was going to hear from you again.
> 
> God, it feels good to be holding something that touched you. 
> 
> I’m not sure if you’re allowed to send more than just the two letters, but -- when can I see you? There’s got to be, like, weekends off? Or are you done soon? I wanted to write you back as soon as I got the letter so I haven’t had a chance to get to the library to look any of this up. 
> 
> No matter what, I’ll drive to San Antonio. I’ll come to you, just say the word.
> 
> Love you and stay safe,
> 
> M--

\--

> **Sent: September 14th, 2008**  
>  From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> You can not just drive here. I definitely don’t get weekends off. But there’s a graduation weekend on October 4-8th, 2008 and family can come. Then I get my transfer orders; I think probably to Florida, fuck my life. During the graduation weekend, there are visiting hours and if I don’t get in trouble, I’ll be able to show you around the base. Maybe you and Mimi could drive down, stay the night in San Antonio, and see the ceremony on Sunday? I have to stay on base until I transfer, but I can eat lunch with you.
> 
> That sounds awful, drive 8 hours each way to just see each other for lunch? And Mimi needs to keep the bar open; maybe we can find another time? Maybe I’ll get a base nearby? Cannon AFB’s only 113 minutes from Roswell. And I should get some leave around Christmas, unless I get ordered to stay.
> 
> Is -- could we plan on that? I don’t want to ask you to drive all that way, just to see me for a few hours. It seems like letters take about 10 days round trip, so we're going to be out of synch. Is it ok? We can just answer the letters as they come. if I keep writing? It -- it helps a lot. Writing to you. Knowing you’re there.
> 
> You signed the last one, saying something. I haven’t said it yet. I want to say it to your face the first time I do.
> 
> But still: I’m yours.
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: September 15th, 2008**  
>  From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas  
> Dear M--,
> 
> I should have asked how you are. How’s the ranch job? Are they treating you well? Is Max ok? Were you able to get into the community college classes we talked about? I heard they’re starting some online ones, if you wanted to give that a try.
> 
> Ok, enough nagging, I just -- I like to think you’re in a good place and I like to know how you are.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: September 21st, 2008**  
>  From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> Maria brought me your letter. We’ll be there and I’ll bring them. The three of us are going to start driving right after closing, so we’ll be there at 10am. I checked the schedule and I went to Sarge and got everything we needed to visit. There’s paperwork you need to file to have us on base -- remember, there’s 3 of us coming. Include everyone’s full legal names. I’ve included a copy of the forms you need to file and have with you whenever you’re with us.
> 
> I talked to your recruiter, as soon as you get to your new base, you can get access to a phone. Call the Pony, tell them your new address. Then you’ll be able to request a block leave.
> 
> Stay safe Alex. They send their love,
> 
> Mimi
> 
> PS: M. made me unseal this to write -- “I’d drive 16 hours just to see you from across a stadium any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Getting to hug you and talk with you is just an added bonus. Stay safe, Alex.”

\--

> **Sent: September 25th, 2008  
> ** From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear Mimi,
> 
> The letter got here a little faster than usual and it was so good to hear from you! I’m so glad to get to see you soon. Thank you for driving all that way, and keeping the Pony closed on a Sunday. 
> 
> I really appreciate you looking up all those details. A lot of kids from military families know the drill, but there’s a lot of stuff Sarge never covered for me. Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: September 26th, 2008**  
>  From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Oh, we’re going to see each other in only a dozen days. I can’t wait, I miss you so much.
> 
> I’m guessing you couldn’t get off the ranch last week. As soon as my paychecks start coming in and I’m on base, I’m going to get one of those indestructible Nokia phones and a phone plan, so we can talk.
> 
> Or -- should I? Maybe it’s better using letters, like this. Gives us time to think. I -- you mentioned not knowing if you were ever going to see me again. And I know how I left, I get how you thought that. I, maybe sometimes I need the space. The distance, to think about things. To get the words right.
> 
> But I’d get the words wrong over and over and over again if I could just see your face.
> 
> I miss you so much.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: October 1st, 2008  
> ** From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I want to hear all about that career field and your brilliant scores. I will see you at Christmas and your graduation. I'm greedy like that. You’re right, I didn’t get let off the ranch -- two of the Foster’s spoiled kids got drunk and rode the tractor into the side of the barn, so all the ranch hands have been spending every wink of sunlight patching it up so the cows don’t freeze when the temperatures start to drop. Mimi read me your letter over the phone, that’s how I got her to add the PS.
> 
> I am so fucking glad I’m going to be seeing you in a week. I have no idea what I’ll wear, but I’ll be there with bells on (does the Air Force allow bells?).
> 
> Max is … Max. His Dad got him an internship with Sheriff Valenti, so now he thinks he wants to be a cop. I think he read too much Dostoyevsky in Ms Randall’s Great Novels class and thinks he’s gonna be some Porfiry Petrovich; bad news, Max, there’s no detectives in a Sheriff's department. Just deputies.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **Sent: October 1st, 2008  
> ** From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> There’s all these ceremonies on graduation day -- the airmen run, the coin ceremony with the MTIs. It’s a lot of pomp and circumstance and, I don’t know if you should come.
> 
> I just heard from my Dad. He’s coming. I couldn’t stop him. I tried, I did try, you have to believe me.
> 
> I tried.
> 
> I completely understand if you don’t want to come. More than understand, fuck.
> 
> I’ll make sure you have a pass in case, but god, I wouldn’t want to come if he was here and I had a choice.
> 
> You need to stay safe too.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

 **October 3rd, 2008  
** DeLuca House, Roswell, New Mexico

Michael peered into Maria’s closet, hands tucked into his hole-y jeans: “I don’t think any of your Dad’s stuff is gonna fit me.”

She hooked her sharp little chin over his shoulder: “Just try it on.”

He rolled his lower lip over his teeth, biting down until the pain told him it was ok to stop. He _knew_ he couldn’t do anything like hug Alex or kiss him or spin him around in circles like something out of a romance movie when he saw him, but Mimi had promised him he was allowed to _see_ him at his BMT graduation ceremony and -- he wanted to look better than he usually did. 

They didn’t know where he was gonna be assigned, which base -- whether it would even be in the United States or someplace Michael had no way of reaching.

And he intended to follow. He wanted to be where Alex was; maybe not full-time, since he had people who needed him in Roswell; but for a few weeks, to get him settled.

Alex didn’t know how to _move_ ; he didn’t know how to use trash bags to fit everything he needed into them, how to get a library card without a permanent address, where the food pantries were. Michael didn’t know those things about anywhere but Roswell, but a little Google-fu at the library would solve that problem for both of them.

Everywhere had libraries.

He traced his hand over the silk shirts and embroidered vests in Mimi's closet, still in their dry cleaning bags; all Maria had left of a Dad who’d gone out on the range one day and just, not come back.

“Could I --” He plucked at a black shirt, embroidered in gold across the shoulders. It was a lot more Alex’s thing than his, but if Alex couldn’t wear his own clothes, then Michael would just have to wear them for him. He’d been through a lot worse than wearing some Johnny Cash country-goth stylings. 

“Sure,” Maria said. “Hat off, shirt off, I’ll help you get the suspenders working.”

“Suspenders?” Michael said, shrugging his heavy jacket off. It caught on the thumb of his left hand and he felt his knees go weak with the pain. He thought he’d covered just fine, but then Maria’s big eyes were staring at him.

“Mikey?” She asked, voice quiet as she helped him undo the button-up cuff on his right side. “What happened to your hand?”

Michael frowned, trying to think. _What did she know about Alex’s home life? Would she call him a liar, keep him from talking to Alex, stop passing him the mail when it came in?_

But it came to him, so broad and so clear -- if he lied about it, he was just -- just protecting _another_ abuser. Another fucking peach of a man who thought he could do to him because he didn’t have anyone to stop them.

“Jesse Manes took a hammer to me.”

Maria gasped, rose-painted nails going across her lips as Michael felt bad; he felt bad anytime he told people what had happened to him, whether it was the foster Dad with the drunken rages or the sleeping-in-the-truck thing -- it was all a lot of drama and not a lot of help.

But Maria reached out, fingers fitting under his palm, lifting, letting his left hand rest on hers. Her hand was small and warm and for a horrible, terrifying moment, he missed Alex so much he thought he was going to cry. He was the last person who’d held his hand, who’d comforted him over this, and it drove him right back to all of those feelings, those memories, feeling someone’s soft skin on his, on those battered nerves and bulging veins and twisted bones.

“That’s fucked up,” she said. “Want me to put dry yeast in his beer if he’s there?”

Michael frowned. “What would that do?”

“Make him shit his pants.”

Michael’s eyes lit-up. “Can we do that right before the ceremony so Alex won't have to see him?”

Maria shrugged. “I don’t know why not -- I’m sure there’s concessions stand and we can ask my Mom to get him one or something. It only takes a little.”

Michael tilted his head to the side as he worked on his buttons. “You sound like you’ve done it before.”

Maria’s grin was nearly wicked. “How’d you think Flint Manes ended up leaving prom early?”

Michael shook his head. “You’re a trouble-maker, you know that?”

Maria’s eyes glinted: “I prefer to think of it as a direct action activist against the military-industrial complex.”

“Whatever you say, Deluca.”

\--

> ****Sent:** October 6th, 2008  
> **From: Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I’m not sure if you’re coming and I selfishly want to see you there, but not if he’s going to hurt you, and I know you didn’t get that letter until today and who knows when you’ll be able to reply and just -- please stay safe. I’ll find a way to see you, no matter what you do.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

> ****Sent:** October 6th, 2008  
> **From: The Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I don’t know if they’ll forward your letters from BMT to your next base, but in case by some magical chance you get this before the 8th, just know -- I’ll be there. I will. He can’t scare me away from you.
> 
> I love you,
> 
> M--


	2. 2008 [105,251]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If folks are curious, here's more information about the career field I put Alex into for this: https://www.reddit.com/r/AirForce/wiki/jobs/1a8x2#wiki_tech_school and some info about different bases here: https://www.reddit.com/r/RateMyAFB/

**October 8, 2008**  
Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas

Michael tugged on his suspenders, trying to get them to sit properly on his shoulders as they waited in the family line outside of the Lackland Air Force Base stadium. Maria had told Mimi just about immediately about Jesse and Michael's hand and she’d packed an entire box of baking yeast, letting it ride in the cupholder where he could see it the whole way, tucked right in front of the green book Maria consulted before each gas stop. It was old, the 1963 printing, but Mimi said it had never steered her wrong and figured it was better safe than sorry.

They’d driven in shifts all night, getting there at 9am after a quick stop at Starbucks. Michael had the first shift and then he'd against the window in the first quiet sleep he’d gotten in months (the other ranch hands liked to play the radio to drown out the sound of the highway, and it messed with his sleep something awful, so many unknown bodies around him in the bunkhouse). There was a spouse briefing on base at 9:30am, but it was only for people who were married. He and Maria had shared a look over her tray of four coffees, considering how far they would take this if they needed to. 

Something to discuss when they were out from under Mimi’s watchful gaze.

Michael _wanted_ to focus on the fact that Alex was just through that long concrete tunnel, just on the inside of the stadium, doing the final airmen run before the coining ceremony.

But his eyes wouldn’t stop scanning for Jesse. Every cap, every uniform, every pair of glacial eyes looked like the senior Manes and made Michael's stomach hurt.

Mimi was scanning too, the same look of seriousness on her face that Michael could feel dragging on his own. Her eyes caught on someone further back in line and without a word, she grabbed the two coffees -- hers and Jesse Manes’ regular order, carefully spiked with yeast.

Then she was off, massive purple shawl fluttering behind her, calling out: “Sarge! So good to see you --” and then she was gone.

Michael forced himself to keep his eyes forward, his head down, Mimi’s father’s black range rider hat tight over his curls.

“She’ll handle him,” Maria murmured, tucking her arm around Michael’s waist. “She never makes promises she can't keep and she promised he wouldn’t make it into the stadium. Alex’s _real_ family are the only people who're going to see him today.”

“Do you think we’ll really get to be with him until 8pm?”

It had been the subject of much debate during the drive -- the Air Force Family FAQ website had said that Alex’s Military Training Instructor (MTI) could impose an earlier curfew, could keep them from seeing Alex at all, and they'd have no way of knowing.

Michael knew how much Alex hated arbitrary rules, but he hoped, hoped in the kind of way that made his heart crunch in his chest, that Alex would have kept his head down, stayed safe, and they would get the full 10 hours together.

The line inched forward into the stadium, the massive dark hallway only lit by the Texas sun on the field on the other side. Maria jiggled him a little. 

“So,” she said, “The spousal briefing.” She kept her voice low, in case anyone around them was a narc. “I know when I first got Alex’s letter, we talked about this, this beard thing.”

Michael tensed a little and she squeezed him gently. “I’m not trying to back out; I’ll be there for Alex. But I want to make sure we both agree on what we’re doing.”

Michael nodded, breath catching in his chest. Maria sighed, turning to look up at him.

“Michael, chill out.”

He looked down, blinking hard, working his jaw, mind swirling.

He felt her fingertips on his cheek: “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

“What _if_ you change your mind,” he said, voice hoarse. “What if you get tired of it or move or -- I don’t have any other options. I don’t have a Mom who can bail me out, I don’t have Dad who can get me internships.” He held out his shaking hands. “What I’ve got is what I can get with these two hands. That’s what I’ve got, ‘Ria.” He swallowed hard, taking a nose breath until he could think clearly. “So, whatever you need from me, whatever ground rules you want to set, I’ll follow them. I’ll follow them because I don’t have any other _choice_.”

Maria’s eyes had been getting wide. She tugged him forward a little bit, so they kept their place in line, the weight of the stadium seating heavy above their heads. She took a slow breath and said. “I don’t like having more power than you in this. It fucking sucks, the situation we’re in. It just blows.” She looked down at the carefully swept concrete. “How about -- I promise to do what’s best for Alex. You know I love him.”

Michael nodded; Maria had always had Alex’s bestie back in high school, against Valenti and his crew, against the teachers who never enforced the no bullying rules, against the shit his own mind threw at him. Over the summer, he’d found Alex at Maria’s more than a few times, ice-pack to his ribs and cup of tea in his hands. Mimi had let him in the front door, just telling him to put his muddy boots in the pantry before going to Alex. When Alex had disappeared -- and Michael still didn’t know what Jesse had done to convince him to sign away 4 years of his life to the Air Force but it had all happened over one weekend and then Alex was _gone_ \-- Michael had gone to Maria first. She had had no idea where he was either, and before Maria had gotten his first letter, Michael’d nearly ripped the town apart trying to find him. He had no idea how Alex remembered that weekend, signing up, shipping out. It haunted him, thinking that maybe he could have said goodbye if he hadn’t been in lock-up for fucking with Valenti’s new rims. The thought that maybe Alex had left _because_ he’d gotten locked up had haunted him on no small number of nights.

He forced himself back to the present. “I think we need to let Alex tell us what he needs.”

Maria nodded, frowning a little. “You ever notice how sometimes, Alex doesn’t talk? He doesn’t always have a good sense of his best options?” She rolled her shoulders back, adjusting her hair over her shoulder. “He’s always making the best choices on the information he has in front of him, I believe that, but he’s never had a lot of practice with things going his way. So sometimes he just chooses the least-bad option because he doesn’t know anything better is even on the table.” She moved them forward in line again. Her next words were delicate, careful: “So there might be times when we might need to help him.”

Michael frowned. “I’m not sure when that might be, but you’ve been his friend for forever. You know better than me.”

She whispered as they walked another step, now through the long tunnel and into the light: “Michael, he signs his letters to you ‘Yours.’ You’re just as much an expert in Alex Manes as I am.”

Michael felt a little flush spread across his chest. In all these weeks of subterfuge, of working together, he’d never been sure what Maria thought of them, as a couple. It made him feel warm to hear the approval in her voice.

“Alright,” she said, voice clear and strong. “We’ll both try to figure out, with Alex’s input, what’s best for Alex. I’ll keep helping, you’ll keep staying out of trouble, and together, all three of us can get him through this alive.” She took a long breath. “Just so you know, since he’s going to get Top Secret clearance, I’m going to get interviewed. I hate to ask it, but I think I need to keep reading the letters, at least until he gets his clearance. Maybe mark with a star anything you don't want me to read? They might ask me things from them. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Michael nodded, chest twisting. He said: “I think you should write him too. I don’t think anyone will notice different handwriting, and he needs to hear from people other than me.”

She gave him a smile just as they stepped into the bright southern morning light: “That’s a great plan.”

\--

Alex didn’t know whether to scan the stands or not as he stood in strict formation while the MTIs worked their way through the assembly of Airmen, handing out their challenge coins. If it was just his Dad, he wanted to run back to the kitchens and hide out for as long as he could. If it was just Mimi and Maria, he was going to be so, so grateful they were there.

And if Michael had come -- he held his breath, forcing his heart to calm down.

Finally, he couldn’t stop himself any longer and he looked up. Family after family stood in the stands, watching and waving to catch their airmen’s eyes.

One quadrant, scanning every row: no one.

Another quadrant, scanning every column: no one.

A third.

Nothing.

And then he saw Mimi’s hair and a black cowboy hat and Maria in a bright purple blouse. Something hard uncurled in his chest, like a muscle that had become so tense it had nearly turned to bone, but now filling with blood and oxygen and _life._ He could feel his heart slamming under his breastbone, the air in his lungs as he drank them in, watched and waited and -- there. Maria nudged the cowboy beside her and Michael looked up, eyes finding Alex’s across the crowded stadium.

Only 8.5 weeks of drills kept his body in parade rest when he just wanted to sag, or better yet, break formation, climb into the stands, wrap himself around Michael and never let go. They held each other's eyes until the MTI came to his row and handed him his challenge coin. Then he found him again. He didn't look away until his row of trainees was dismissed; and then he walked with the biggest steps he could. The MTIs directed them through an exit on the far side of the stadium from where Michael and Maria and Mimi were sitting. Once he was out of sight of the MTIs, Alex booked it, trying to get to the exit he knew they had to have used.

Alex pushed pass hugging families, kissing couples, airmen he'd carried and who'd carried him across fields and over hills, men and women and people's he leaned to shoot and shout and exist with, surrounded by the people they loved. Jose, who'd cried every night for the first week, had twin toddlers clinging to his knees; Kim, the woman who was in her 30s and had beat them all at the first push-up challenge had buried her face her husband's neck. There were uniforms and eyes everywhere and Alex just needed to find Mimi and Maria and Michael.

He finally found them at the thin edge of the massive crowd, backs against the stadium wall, scanning for him. He swallowed, feeling Air Force-employed eye on him. 

He walked up to them, back ramrod straight.

"Hey," he started -- then Mimi swooped in, her shawl fluttering around her arms as she swept all three of them up in a big hug. In the jumble, Maria and Mimi maneuvered Alex and Michael into the middle, both of their arms around them, Mimi’s voice low and clear in Alex's ear:

“Make it quick boys.”

And then Michael’s arms were around him, and Mimi and Maria were holding them even tight. Michael’s feet stumbled over his polished boots, Michael’s hair was in his mouth, the smell of him was everywhere. Alex leaned against Maria behind him, hand finding and squeezing Mimi’s wrist in a silent thanks, as Michael tucked his face into Alex’s shoulder and just _breathed_ for a moment.

Then Alex felt something slip into his pocket and he pulled back to see Michael giving him a damp smirk. “I heard Airmen aren’t allowed to put their hands in their pockets, so I guess you’ll just have to see what it is later.”

Alex dove in again, holding Michael close for another long minute before pulling away. He hugged Maria and then Mimi for long moments, back tightening when Mimi murmured: “Your Dad was here, but he won’t be joining us today.”

Alex tilted his head in question but Mimi shook her curls: “The less you know, the better, sweetheart.” She reached over to adjust his cap. “Not going to let him mess up a day that should be special.”

Alex pulled back a little, looking around. “Are -- you're ok with this? With me being here?”

He knew Mimi hated what the military did to too many people, had heard her and Maria discuss it over his head while he was camping out on their couch. 

But she shook her head: “What’s done is done. It’s a big deal, making it through BMT. Even if I could end all wars, I would still be proud of you that you set your mind to something and then did it. I’d rather you were an airman during peacetime, but we’ve never been at peace your entire life. And that’s on me and mine.” She shook her curls. “I’m not going to blame you for something you had no hand in creating.”

She took a breath, shifting tone as the ocean of families flushed around them. “So, Michael and Maria and I were betting on whether you would be able to stick around with us until 8pm. Maria figured you would have an earlier check-in time for bad behavior.”

“Yeah?” Alex said, nudging Maria before pulling her into another hug. It felt _incredible_ to be with people he could be soft around, after more than 2 months of constantly being on guard.

Maria answered: “Michael was sure you would be able to stay with us the whole time, but I don’t know if that was wishful thinking on his part.”

Michael raised his hands, side still pressed against Alex's, Alex living in his crooked smile. “What can I say, I’m an optimist when it comes to Alex.”

Alex grinned: “Well, as it happened, I _do_ have the whole afternoon free, all the way until 8pm. So whatever you two bet Michael, you better pay up.”

Something more serious showed in Michael’s eyes: “Nah, if anything, I owe them. I couldn’t be here at all without them.”

And for a long moment, Alex turned to the two women, making firm, clear eye-contact: “Thank you. To both of you. It -- it means the world. What you've done.”

They each nodded back. Then, forcing himself into a lighter register, Alex smiled: “Are you all ready to see the base?”

The hours felt incredibly long, and never long enough, the first real, unstructured time Alex had had in months. He managed to convince Michael there was no way he could help him move into wherever the Air Force sent him, but they would keep writing. Mimi wanted to make sure he knew how to get all of his TriCare appointments set-up, to make the most of the benefits he had as a military member. And Maria enjoyed meeting his squad mates, who'd teased Alex for weeks about his mysterious pen pal "M--."

\--

> **October 20th, 2008  
> ** Fairchild AFB in Spokane, WA
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> God I miss you. Thank you for your letters, they all got forwarded. I just got writing privileges after the first round of survival training. I can write you every day after this, but maybe just once or twice a week? I need to sleep too sometimes xD.
> 
> I can’t wait to see you again. Only another two months. We can do this.
> 
> Thanks for the keyring you slipped into my pocket at graduation. I put my barracks room key on it. It was fun finding it in my pocket after you all left.
> 
> Ok, more about my day. Let’s see. I’ve been practicing being in a flight crew, learning the different technologies we’ve got. Next up is survival training which is going to be r o u g h.
> 
> I can’t wait to see you, I confirmed I’ve got three days of leave. Can you meet me at the Rodaway Inn outside of Tuscon, December 23? I’ll be stationed at Davis-Monthan from Thanksgiving until after the New Year. I can take a taxi there from the base.
> 
> I miss you so much.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

**\--**

**December 23rd, 2008  
** Rodeway Inn, Tucson, AZ

Alex pressed his lips together as he heard the keycard in the lock. He didn’t know what he looked like; well, he knew what the mirror showed him -- more definition in the arms, no real hair, no piercings, pain-filled eyes like usual -- but it was so different from how he felt inside. What he’d been the last time Michael had seen him alone. 

The door opened and the first thing he saw was a black cowboy hat. He stayed sitting on the bed, letting Michael see him in his fatigues, letting him see the circles under his eyes, the way his hands sat palm-up on his knees.

Michael -- Michael looked _good_. He looked _so good_. He looked like sunshine and warmth, like a kiss under fake stars and a hundred -- a literal hundred -- letters written in the last 2 months. The mail clerk had started to threaten caps on personal letters, and M-- had become the by-word for romance on Alex’s training base mailroom, the standard to which all over long-distance lovers were held. 

Michael looked so good, setting his high school backpack on the carpet.

Alex felt like shit.

“‘Lex?” Michael asked, shifting his hat off his head, “You ok?”

Alex shook his head, eyes brimming over and Michael took a quiet step forward, second-hand boots trickling with rain, tracking smudges of red dirt on the beige motel carpet.

“‘Lex?” Michael repeated, closer now, and Alex couldn’t look up, couldn’t see those gorgeous golden eyes, couldn’t see him standing over him, smiling or frowning or fist upraised or --

Alex made a broken glass sound in his throat and grasped for Michael’s thigh, pulling him close enough to bury his face in his stomach. He _smelled_ like home. Alex choked back a hard breath, and another, coming faster and faster as his push-up hardened fingers traced shapes in the outside seams of Michael’s jeans. Michael’s hands came unfrozen, clipping along his shoulders to trace through his hair, and Alex let out the first real sob he’d had since that day in the shed.

“C’mere,” Michael said, pulling him closer, stepping between his thighs, wrapping his arms around the back of Alex’s head, enclosing him completely in his body, and it should have felt claustrophobic, it should have felt impossibly small, the space between his work-hardened forearms and his too-thin stomach, but -- it wasn’t. 

It was perfect. Exactly enough space to get a full breath, exactly enough space to just hear his own breathing and none of the yelling of the MTIs or the trainers his survival courses or the whining of the boys in his unit -- almost all boys, no one old enough to drink in his team. 

Alex could feel Michael’s shirt getting wet and he could hear clips of memories, of every time he’d gotten shit, gotten hit, for crying, even when it was the hitting that had made him cry in the first place. But there was some impossible, perfect part of him that knew Michael would just hold him through it, not take it away from him until he was done.

He hiccuped and Michael gave a half-laugh, tugging his ear: “Want to make this more comfortable?”

Alex jerked a nod and Michael leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead before reaching down to tangle his fingers in his hand, _so warm and solid and his_ , and tug him up to the top of the bed. Michael sat high up on the bed, legs apart, boots on the slick patterned cover. Alex didn’t know if he wanted him to sit between his legs or straddle him, but all he wanted to do was be wrapped up in him, get as much body contact as possible, and so he just sort of laid down, head on his thigh, body curled around his leg, fingers not letting go of the grip he had on his left hand, fingertips tracing over the raised scars as Michael traced lines up and down his back. It took long, long minutes for Alex’s breathing to return to normal, for his body to stop feeling so hot and so cold at the same time. To look up, cheeks heated, at Michael’s smiling face.

“The hat’s that bad, huh?” he asked and Alex broke into a laugh that ended in a sob, muffled against the thick work denim of his thigh.

“It’s not the hat; the hat is hot as fuck.”

“Is it the jeans? I got them second-hand but Maria said they made my ass look fine.”

Alex closed his eyes, tucking his hand under Michael’s hip to feel: “Your ass would look fine in BDUs, don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Michael snickered and ran the back of his knuckles down the side of Alex’s neck. “So, what is it?”

Alex shook his head, pressing his mouth to Michael’s thigh: “I just feel so _stupid._ ”

“Yeah? Well, you shouldn’t.” Michael said simply. “You’re brilliant.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I don’t know about that.”

“You _are_.” Michael said stubbornly. “Has someone been telling you different?”

“Just me,” Alex said quietly, “I’m --” he took a breath, covering his face with his hand, “I can’t believe I did this. To you. To us. To me.”

Michael’s palm slid to the side of his face, gently turning him until he could see his concerned eyes. “You’re gonna need to be a little more specific.” His voice was careful, worry carefully buried, but Alex felt worse -- _why couldn’t he get anything right?_

“Joining the Air Force. It’s going to be another 3 and a half years of this. Of fucking _hiding,_ of secret messages like you’re Cyrano de Bergerac, of motel rooms and _no college_ and just --”

“Hey, hey, hey, Alex --” Michael started, but as Alex tried to look away, Michael just slid down the bed, pulled Alex on top of him so he was cuddled in the middle of his chest, bracketed by Michael’s strong arms, body balanced. “I’m with you, ok? I’m here. I’ll _be_ here. I’ll _keep being here_. It’s not your fault and you’re doing the best you could with a shit hand. I just want you to stay safe, to get out, to be kind to yourself, and to, fuck, to _not die_ Alex, ok? Ok? That’s it. Don’t die; come back to me. Everything else we can work out.”

“But _college_ , Michael, you were --”

Michael’s wrecked laugh was even harder to hear through his chest, but Alex was _so fucking glad_ to be touching him. “I wasn’t going to go to college because of my family problems, Alex, not yours. And who knows, when you get out, you’ll have the GI Bill and maybe I’ll have saved up enough and --”

Alex closed his eyes. “You think I’ll live to the end of this?”

And Michael froze, hands unmoving on Alex’s hips. Then he gripping him, _hard_ , and Alex remembered he’d spent the last 3 months wrangling 700lb steer and living with men who spoke with their hands and he saw a hardness in Michael’s face when he said: “I’m not fucking kidding, Alex. Whatever you have to do to survive, you do it. Don’t die; come back to me.”

Alex nodded, body softening. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had put his life ahead of everything else. _Anything_ _else._ He slid his knees on either side of Michael’s hips, hooking an arm up under his shoulder, holding on tight as he pressed his face into Michael’s chest. “Ok.”

“I’m going to need to hear you say that to my face, ‘Lex.”

He pulled up, knowing his expression was a little aggrieved, and pressed his lips to Michael’s, feeling the soft-plush-push-press of them as he whispered: “Alright. I’ll live; and I’ll come back to you.”

“Good,” Michael grinned, hands coming up to frame his face. “So, you want to try that hello again?”

Alex grinned back, leaning in to press a hot kiss against his mouth, moving to settle more firmly across his hips, feeling Michael’s returning press up against him. He pulled away to say: “God I missed you,”

“You too, love,” Michael said, carding his fingertips through Alex’s hair again. “Every fucking day. Also, we can’t be Cyrano, because that would mean I have a big nose, and I’m pretty well-proportioned in the nose department.”

“Pyramus and Thisbe?”

“That’s not bad,” Michael said, pressing a wet kiss to his mouth. “Oh! Before I forget: I brought presents?”

He tumbled out from under Alex, scrambling to grab the bag and bring it back to the bed, where he unceremoniously unzipped it entirely and up-ended it.

Out tumbled three wrapped boxes and a jangling pair of keys.

He held out the first box: “From Mimi.” He held out the second box. “From Maria.” He held out the third box: “From Mr Ortecho.” And then the keys: “From me.”

Alex cocked his head, folding his legs under him to mirror Michael’s crossed-legged stance on the sunk-springed bed. “What are the keys to?”

Michael cocked his head, giving him a smile: “Our place. It’s just an old Airstream I got for nothing from Sanders, but it’s ours.”

Alex’s eyes got big.

Michael smirked: “I even put you on the deed. I’ll need to get your signature, but it’s, legit, joint property.”

Alex’s heart slammed against his chest. “I -- I don’t know what to say, Michael.”

Michael shrugged: “Say you’ll never stay with Jesse or your brother when you come home. We can only poison him with yeast so many times before he stops taking drinks from us. You can come to Maria’s, you can come to Mr Ortecho’s, but you’re never going to have to stay in that house again as long as you live.”

Alex climbed into his lap, toppling him back over with a happy thump, feeling the old springs give and groan beneath them. He worked his fingers into Michael’s hair as he preened under the attention, shoving the keys into his pocket with his other hand, before pressing kiss after kiss on Michael’s face. Michael kept chasing him, trying to connect with his lips, but Alex kept kissing his eyebrow and forehead and cheekbone and ear, until Michael was a wriggling mess in his arms.

“Careful of the presents!” He warned as Alex sat up to carefully move them to the bedside table.

“I’ll get to them later,” he promised. “For now, I’d like to unwrap my present.”

Michael’s eyes went wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Alex nodded, smoothing his hands down Michael’s chest. “ _Fuck_ yeah.”

\--

> **Sent: December 26th, 2008**  
>  From: Rodeway Inn, Tucson, AZ
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> You just got into your taxi back to base and check-out isn't for another hour and I miss you already. I miss the smell of your skin, the way your sleep with your mouth half-open, the quiet hush of the space you make when you're soft and quiet with me.
> 
> It's a 7 hour drive home and I'll be thinking of you every minute of it.
> 
> Love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **Sent: December 26th, 2008  
> ** From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tuscon, AZ
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I'm writing this from my barracks room bed. I've got your keys on your keychain and I'm pretty sure I'm never washing this shirt again.
> 
> I'm on 12hr shifts, covering for the guys with families, between now and until after New Years, then some more training, then some new base and my first operational unit, I don't know where. I might get my orders sooner, but I don't think I will.
> 
> I wish I knew the next time I could see you. But I'm glad we're writing letters, not using the phone. I love having something you touched in my hands, getting to see where you smudged a line or got some taco sauce on it.
> 
> It makes it feel a little bit like you're beside me, all the time.
> 
> And I'll be missing you in my bed every night until I see you again.
> 
> As always, I'm
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are life! Thank you so much for reading!


	3. 2009 [106,749]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the video Michael was watching on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2otXK54z7x4
> 
> There's a very brief mention of the existence of Juicy Bars, ie, places that US service members go to be flirted with by underpaid women, and sometimes engage in commercial sex or sex trafficking. It's not graphic at all, just a mention that it exists, but I wanted to give folks a heads-up.

**January 24th, 2009** **  
**Fosters’ Ranch, Roswell, NM

Michael tucked his shoulders tight against the Fosters’ pantry door, swooping his finger around the rotary phone’s dial, calling Maria’s number; he was all out of minutes for the month on his emergency cell-phone and Mrs Foster was giving him a break. He had his Saturday afternoon try-out to be a range rider on the ranch today, not just a seasonal hand. He’d rescheduled it from last month to after the holiday, to make sure he could be there for Alex. But Mrs Foster insisted on feeding all of the candidates a hearty meal before the try-outs and she’d told him he could use the phone for 2 minutes.

Maria picked up on the first ring: “Mail isn’t until Friday, you know the base transfer slowed it down --”

“I know, I know, that’s not what this is about.”

“Ok,” Maria said, voice slowing down, “What’s it about?”

“If -- if I mark an envelope with three stars, can you not read it? I get what we said, about you needing to read it for any clearance interviews, but, sometimes, there might be stuff we just want to say to each other, ok? And, anyway, if you get interviewed, you can always read Alex’s replies later and I can tell you anything I wrote.”

There was a long pause and Michael’s eyes carefully followed the hands of the clock. Fifteen seconds later, he heard a sigh.

“Yeah, that works for me. You know it’s not that I _want_ to--”

“No, no,” Michael stuttered, “I know. And you know how much of a lifesaver you are, ‘Ria. I just -- I want to be able to say some things, just between us?”

There was kindness in her voice when she said: “Of course. Yeah. 3 stars it is.”

“Thanks, ‘Ria. I gotta go.”

“Stay safe, Michael.”

Michael heard the pantry door open, yellow flowered curtain tapping dustily against the window in the door. He hung up the phone, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Everything ok, Michael?” Mrs Foster asked, drying her hand on a washed out faded cream hand towel that was more holes than fabric.

He nodded: “Yes, ma’am. Just calling my friend, checking in on her.”

“A lady friend?” She said with a sly smile, and Michael returned it. She’d been kind to him ever since Max had gotten him this job, treated him like everybody else, regardless of his hand or his living situation. He’d also seen her treat the African American ranch hands the exact same as the Mexican-American, Native American, and white ranch hands, which he couldn’t say for all the ranchers in Roswell. So he felt safe enough saying:

“Maria DeLuca, Mimi’s daughter? We went to school together.”

“She’s dating one of the Manes boys, right?” She shook her head, lines on her forehead getting deeper. “Their Daddy came around, sniffing to buy the ranch for some government project. He mentioned she was dating one of his brood, with some none-too-charitable words about her family. We sent him packing.” She twisted her mouth. “Bad blood.”

Michael swallowed, jaw working. He’d had no idea Jesse had been on the ranch. He’d just need to keep his head down even more then. “We don’t really do a lot of girl talk --” he started, then he found himself wracking his brain for what he and Maria could plausibly have in common; he said: “I’m helping her with the rancheria nights. Her Spanish isn’t so good, so I help her translate the posters.”

“Hmph,” Mrs Foster said, as if that one phrase could sum-up anyone with substandard Spanish living and working in New Mexico. She opened the door, gesturing him back through the kitchen, to the dining room on the other side. “You better get another helping before those bigger boys eat all the stew.”

“Thank you, Mrs Foster.”

He was almost to the door to the dining room when she called out: “It’s Alex, right?”

Michael froze, feeling his face go through a tornado of different emotions before he could force it still and neutral.

“Ma’am?”

She walked past him, snatching a cornbread biscuit from their drying rack on the way out. “Maria DeLuca’s boyfriend, it’s Alex Manes, right? Not Flint, or the other one, the nice one -- Greg?”

Michael nodded, heart pounding, fear almost filling his mouth so he couldn’t speak. But he managed: “Yes, he was in our year.”

She nodded, then nudged him with her elbow. “Grab one of those muffins while they’re hot. And good luck at the try-outs, Michael.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he managed to mumble before he took his place at the depleted table.

\--

> **Sent: January 28th, 2009** **  
> **From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> It’s been a hell of a weekend -- in a good way though. I got the range rider job on the ranch! Not just seasonal work! I’m an actual cowboy now. I had to do a formal try-out with Mr Foster, taking care of a lost calf and lassoing a steer. But I did it -- and I’m the only girl on the ranch here but the guys are ok with me. It’s nice, having steady outdoor work. He wasn’t sure about my hand, but the other guys vouched for me and said I had the grip for it. I knew I could do it and I knew you’d be really proud, so I did it!
> 
> Anyway, enough bragging. 
> 
> Hmm, let’s see, I cooked beans and rice for dinner. Thrilling. Max came over to the ranch on Sunday with Isobel to say hi; I’m glad we got to talk a little bit about my family, last month. It’s good to have someone else know who they are to me, even if most people we went to school with don’t. It means you’ll know what I mean when I say Max was being really Max about my job, and Isobel even more Isobel than usual about my hair. They mean well, but I was glad when I had to go in for supper and they drove off in that new pick-up their Dad bought them to share. But even with all that, if I’m in trouble, I know Max will have my back.
> 
> Like you said when we met up in Tucson, the Air Force sent someone around to interview all of us who you listed for your clearance. They talked to Max and Isobel and Michael and Mimi and your Dad and some of your teachers and Sheriff Valenti. Nothing to report, just a boring talk with a random gringo dude from Cannon AFB.
> 
> Onto the good stuff: when I was last at the library, I listened to the new Pink! album on this website, YouTube. It’s pretty weird, they’re just letting anyone upload anything now, but it’s -- it’s really cool. I hope you get it on base.
> 
> I didn’t get a lot of studying done, with all the practicing lassoing. I don’t like to run the engine to power the lights after dark and I have to get up with the chickens now (apparently). But there’s a new librarian who doesn’t remember me from when I lifted that textbook, from when my foster dad wouldn’t let me get a card, and this is -- I’m really excited to get to reading it on my Sunday off.
> 
> It’s a thing with the Fosters, Sundays off. They have their sons do the feeding and the wrangling on Sundays, but it’s not like the stock market is open and it’s not like there’s any buyers coming or anything like that to be done, so, it’s -- nice. It’s quiet.
> 
> Man, if you were here, just the two of us.
> 
> Ok, I read up on the regulations on what you can and can’t receive and while I can’t send dirty mags, here’s what I can do -- send you a letter about what I want to do. 
> 
> If it’s too embarrassing just don’t read this part, ok?
> 
> ***
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> You’ve been warned, Alex!
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> Ok, for real now. Sheesh, this feels embarrassing. But also, maybe, nice? Anyway.
> 
> You’ll come here and see me when you’re in Roswell next. And you won’t have seen the Airstream before, so you’ll be looking around, trying to figure out if it’s mine, and I’ll come over and grab your arm and spin you around and just, kiss the heck out of you. I’ll bring you inside and you’ll run your hands through my hair, and you’ll taste -- just so good, Alex. Just so good. And then we’ll kiss more and you’ll be in my space, pushing me back, and I’ll be pressing back against you, and it’s kind of like wrestling but fun?
> 
> Then I’ll walk you back to the bed, which is all nice and soft with a quilt I’m gonna buy with my first no-longer-under-the-table paycheck because these Goodwill blankets are scratchy as hell, and I’ll lay you down there, and you’ll just be trying to get your clothes off as fast as you can and honestly, so will I. I’ll take off my shirt and you won’t be able to look away from me and then before you can even get your button undone, I’ll be down on you and covering you and just -- all that skin and quiet and time, Alex. 
> 
> All that time. Just for us.
> 
> Ok, your turn! What would we do next?
> 
> Love,
> 
> M--
> 
> PS: Use *** to let me know when the private stuff starts!

\--

> **Sent: February 4th, 2009** **  
> **From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tucson, AZ
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Wow. That’s so cool you got the job **.** So very cool. Sorry Max was being Max :P. I hope Isobel’s doing well, I know you were really worried about her. Are you still parking the Airstream at the Elks Lodge parking lot in downtown while you fix her up? What’s the difference between a steer and a bull? The Fosters -- it’s a beef ranch, right? Or is it dairy? Tell me everything, it’s really cool you’ve got steady work. It makes me feel better knowing you’re safe.
> 
> What you were saying about the regs, that’s true, and I know some of the guys get pictures (not that I need one, I know what you look like. Every last piece of you). I double checked with my wing leader, on behalf of one of the other guys who’s a known horndog, and he said Lu couldn’t get kicked out unless he was advocating illegal activities or in an illegal relationship. Writing it in a letter can count as “telling” I guess.
> 
> Good thing we’re just fine, huh?
> 
> ***
> 
> So, Maria, here’s what I would do.
> 
> You’d be covering me, hands on me. And you’d feel so, so good. So soft and hard and wiry from all that ranch work, hands rough from it but gentle for me. I’d bring you in closer and grind up against you, just, two bodies moving, just two heartbeats together. And you’ll get your clothes off and it would be all of that skin, and I’d get mine off, and you’d ride me, like we did in the truck back before BMT, soft and sure and there, and all mine. And I’d be all yours. And then we’d get cleaned up in the little solar shower and probably waste too much water, but I’m good at fast showers now. Not Navy showers, but still; not a lot of time to ourselves here.
> 
> And then we’d get back on the bed and it’s a narrow one, right? I looked up pictures of different kinds of Airstreams and there’s so many different versions of the insides of them. So I’d sit up behind you, and you’d be between my legs, back against my chest, and you’d tell me all about that cool textbook you’ve been reading on your Sundays and I’d tell you about the coding I’ve been learning, and we’d just get to be. With each other. For a while. 
> 
> Then we’d eat some beans and rice and maybe some peppers we’d get at the market and we’d go to sleep, just, quiet, just the two of us. No yelling MTIs, no braying bulls (or steers -- do cows bray or is that donkeys -- anyway), no worries for a little bit, just us.
> 
> I’m yours, 
> 
> Alex

**\--**

> **Sent: February 5th, 2009** **  
> **From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tucson, AZ
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Shit, I don’t know how to write this. There’s nothing wrong between us, don’t worry about that please, but I just found out my training group is moving to Kunsan. South Korea. On 2/15. We’re going to finish our training there, in a week. By the time you get this letter, I won’t have any free days.
> 
> It’s called an OCONUS TDY, an Outside of the Continental United States Temporary Duty Station. I’ll be there for at least 6 months. Then, I don’t know.
> 
> It’s been such a mess. We’re supposed to get so much more notice, but since we’re all fresh out of BMT, they kind of just move us around. We were a group that was supposed to go straight to Kunsan -- and I’m really glad we didn’t, or else we couldn’t have seen each other over Christmas -- but we couldn’t, because they had black mold in the dorms and were fixing them in Kunsan, so we got slotted over to Davis-Monthan. I thought we would be here for the entire training.
> 
> But, just like an hour ago, they told us to pack up and get ready to leave in 10 days.
> 
> As icing on the shitty cake, one of the guys in my unit runk and punched an LT last week and got our entire unit confined to base, so even if you could get the gas money to drive the 7 hours and 12 minutes to get here, even if you had the gas money for it, we wouldn’t even get a night together. I wanted to fucking _smack_ Rodriguez.
> 
> I spent the entire presentation sitting in the back, trying to think of ways to see you, at least hear your voice. But I can’t ask to leave base overnight, because of fucking Rodriguez. I don’t have spousal paperwork, which would help me make the case for needing leave. The rental car insurance is stupid expensive if you’re under 25, so even if I could leave the base, and could get the leave, it would cost so much. 
> 
> I broke my rule, about not calling; I called the Pony as soon as I got out of the meeting. But no one picked up. I’ll keep calling, just -- just so you know what’s happening. It’s Thursday today, and I should -- maybe I can hear your voice Sunday? Just, just for a second?
> 
> I fucking hate this. I fucking don’t even get to kiss you goodbye and just -- shit.
> 
> By the time you get this, they’ll have started forwarding my mail, so I won’t see your reply until I get there. It’s two weeks, each way, guaranteed. But, when I’m there, I will buy a local SIM card. And I can leave you messages, even with the time difference.
> 
> Ok, let’s focus on facts. We can do that:
> 
>   * Kunsan is 16 hours ahead of Roswell. So if you call me at 6am when you get up, I’ll see it at 10pm. But shit, those calls will be expensive. I think we should stick to the mail, as much as it fucking sucks. You can call the base phone if you really, really need to, and leave a message, or if it’s an emergency and I’m available they’ll come get me. It’s: +82 31-5782-1110
>   * I can leave the base a bit, but a lot of Airmen get drunk and act wrong, so we might get confined to base. But I’ll get a chance to see another country and tell you about it. (I’d give that all up for a kiss goodbye)
>   * I’ll be done here in six months. The whole unit will be done with our training by then/ I’ll have leave by then, a week, maybe more. No matter where I go, I’ll have 2 weeks leave to get settled. I’ll come to you. I’ll find a way to pay for the flight to visit, even if my next base isn’t in the US. We can see each other then.
>   * We’ll make this work. Please tell me this will be ok.
> 

> 
> There’s -- there’s something I wanted to say to you. Something you said to me in one of your first letters, and I didn’t say it back in December, I thought -- I thought we’d have time. A long weekend, in Tuscon or ABQ or someplace, someplace -- shit, someplace romantic. Not the back of a piece of paper, all crumped all.
> 
> I know you know what it is and I know you know how I feel. And I want to say it to you, to your face, where you can hear me, see me, and know I mean it.
> 
> Just, know, please, please know: no matter where I am, 
> 
> I’m yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

 **February 6th, 2009** **  
**Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

Maria drove to Foster’s Ranch as soon as she got off the call with Alex. Her hands were shaking. Somehow, it felt so much more real, knowing Alex was going to be outside of the United States. It felt -- like he was so much closer to being at war. 

She found Michael in the bunk house, glaring down the men as they stared at her. She asked him outside. She held him as he collapsed against her, eyes bright and shining, hair smelling like hay.

She tried to keep her voice even, even as her voice shook: “Alex will call on Sunday at noon. I’ll come get you --”

He pulled back, whispering in the twilight, jaw set: “I can drive there, I can drive to see him, it’s only 7 hours to Tucson --”

“He says he wrote it all down in a letter, it should get here soon. But he can’t leave the base, some kind of punishment, and he’s booked solid until they leave on the 15th. He -- he really, really wants to hear from you. On Sunday. He’ll call at noon. That’s something you can do for him.”

She took a breath: “He just has to survive one enlistment, then you two can build a life. He thought he was making the best choice he could with the information he had available. Our job is to help him understand his options, get him context he can’t get because he’s too caught up in it, and remember he’s _ours_ and they _took_ him from us _and they don’t get to keep him_. Ok?”

Michael gave a shaky nod, eyes overflowing with the motion. Maria yanked her chunky sweater over her thumb and dried under his eyes.

She put her hands on his shoulders, gripping tight so he knew she was serious: “You’re going to come to the Pony on Sunday. When?”

“11:30 so if he calls early I’ll be there.”

She nodded: “And you’re his friend, saying goodbye.”

He nodded again, “because we never know who might be listening.”

“Damn right.” She glanced down at the hoof-churned earth between them. “And then you can have dinner with Mimi and me.”

He started to object: “You’ve got the whole Sunday off, ok? Right?”

“Yeah, but --”

“But nothing. You need a support system too, ok? Come over. We’re having lasagna out of a box and wine left over from that wedding brunch the owner’s daughter made us host at cost. You’ll be back before lights out, I promise.”

Michael glanced back, and then shuffled back a step. He didn’t need their cover getting messed-up by anyone gossiping that Maria was stepping out on Alex.

“Ok, but I want to help cook or clean, I don’t want something for nothing, ‘Ria.”

She felt a smile: “I wasn’t going to let you freeload, Guerin. Don’t worry about it.”

She sent him back inside and kept that smile fixed until she knew he couldn’t see.

She cried the entire way home.

\--

> **February 7th, 2009** **  
> **From: Davis-Monthan AFB, Tucson, AZ
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Ok, so we’re going to get to talk on Sunday, tomorrow. And I will be so glad to hear your voice, and I know you won’t get this until I’m either gone or nearly gone.
> 
> But I wanted to tell you what I was going to do, if we had had a chance to say goodbye to each other.
> 
> ***
> 
> We’d meet at the gates of Saguaro National Park. I’d take a cab from base, and you’d pick me up. We’d get a campsite, right under those huge, towering cacti. You know they’re hundreds of years old, right? And even when they die, they’re home to all of these animals -- birds and bats and lizards and things.
> 
> We’d camp in the back of your truck, put a tarp over the top so we’d stay warm or have a campfire, whatever you like.
> 
> We’d eat PB&J, with the crunchy peanut butter you like.
> 
> We’d turn out all the lights and kiss and kiss, and then peel back a corner of the tarp and just stare into the perfect infinity of the stars.
> 
> (I’ll have different stars to see in Korea, but we’ll be looking at the same moon, the same sun.)
> 
> Once we said goodnight to the stars, we’d zip our sleeping bags together, legs intertwined. I’d kiss you and touch you and you’d laugh, give me that secret smile, the one that lights up your whole face. I’d make you feel so good.
> 
> In the morning, we’d eat apples and more peanut butter and I could show you the brochure they gave me about Kunsan, tell you about the food and the language and the people. Make it be a little like so you were there with me, so you could imagine it too.
> 
> And we’d be out in the backcountry, with no one around, so we’d unwrap the tarp and I’d take you apart under the sun, in front of the sky and God and everybody to see.
> 
> You’d laugh when you came and I could keep that with me, remember that sound, no matter where I went, what happened to me.
> 
> And then, once we’d cleaned up, we could maybe go to the Desert Museum, kiss behind the mesquite bushes. They have this walk-in aviary -- there was a brochure for it at the base exchange, tacked up on the community board. It looked so bright and colorful, so much better than all the camo and stuff around me all the time.
> 
> Then we’d go back to our campsite and watch the sun set, and even though the sunsets are going to be so much different in South Korea, I’ll get to see them through your eyes, knowing you’re there with me.
> 
> I’m still waiting to say the thing I know you know, because I want you to hear it from me and know it to be true.
> 
> I’m yours, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: February 8th, 2009** **  
> **From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I love you. I just got off the phone with you and I wanted to say it -- I love you. I love you no matter where you are. I love you so, so much.
> 
> I looked up Kunsan AFB on Mimi’s computer on Sunday afternoon before family dinner and it seems cool! Lots of cool food and stuff, you should try bibimbap and tell me if you like it. It kind of looked like huevos rancheros with rice, so I think you’d be into it.
> 
> Not a long letter since I need to clean the dishes and then get back to the ranch, but I wanted to write what I can’t always say. And I wanted this to be there for you as soon as it can get there.
> 
> I love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **Sent: February 16th, 2009**
> 
> From: Kunsan AFB, South Korea
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> It’s gorgeous here. We arrived and I only got to see a tiny bit of the city as we flew over it, but there’s turquoise buildings just like at home and the ocean is huge and there's so many people everywhere! It’s really, really cold right now; somehow it feels colder than it does back home. But I have a big, thick jacket.
> 
> They took us by the Camp Humphries commissary and it was incredible. They had this ready-to-go sushi, which I’ve never tried before and am going to try to be awake to try again. And all these fresh veggies and it’s all a really, actually decent price.
> 
> And the apartments are great. I have my own room, with a shared kitchen and bathroom. There’s a game room on the floor below with pool and vending machines, though with that kitchen, I think I’m going to try to learn to cook. One of the guys here, he’s a bit older, but Unaccompanied like me -- that is, he’s not traveling with his family. His name’s Jimmy and he’s 25 and from Houston. 
> 
> There’s -- there’s something incredibly freeing, being on a different continent than my Dad. The knowledge that I cannot possibly see him around any corner, that he doesn't have any way to get to me is just; I was thinking about it a lot on the flight, how much time I spend worrying about him popping up.
> 
> It’s just really good to be someplace settled for 6 months, someplace good.
> 
> I miss you so much.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

**\--**

> **Sent: March 5th, 2009** **  
> **From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I feel bad talking about how cold it’s so much worse down at the elevation you are, but there's a cold snap and I feel like I am dying. No heat in the bunks and I’m still fixing up the Airstream, working in the chill all day -- I melded myself into the chair at the library, the good chair -- did you spend a lot of time at the library? I thought you all had books at home, so maybe not, but there’s this good chair, big high arms so you can sit on it sideways, back curved just right so I can curl up in it, right under a heating vent. 
> 
> I thought about taking the week off, until the storm is over, but I don't get paid for time I don't work, and the truck needed a big repair, so I'm pretty much wiped out. I'll be able to get ahead this summer.
> 
> Anyway, at the library I used that old black cowboy hat so I could take a nap and warm up Sunday. And the good librarian was there, so she didn’t get on my case. It was really nice.
> 
> You being there would have been the only thing to make it better. Sheesh but I miss you.
> 
> Ok, being positive -- I found a new book collection someone donated to the library. Tons of great stuff on astronomy. I’m attached a photocopy of the stars where you are, according to the book, with all of the names on them. You can tell me if it actually looks like that where you are?
> 
> I’m kinda jealous you're up somewhere with a different sky. I can’t remember seeing a different sky than the one we slept out under in the truck. Always the same sky here.
> 
> I miss you and I love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **March 19th, 2009  
> ** Kunsan AFB, South Korea
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I looked up the weather and it looks like it got warmer back home -- I hope you got a good coat, I’m worried that you’re so cold. It’s been a few weeks and I got to go exploring a bit with Jimmy and the others. I didn’t buy any of the tourist stuff; I’d rather just learn, you know? Korea is so, so different. It’s like living in Blade Runner, but so much more colorful. Everything is fast and the language, it’s kind of like Zuni. Kind of like listening to running water.
> 
> I was on my way back from the city -- which people here spell Gunsan, it’s only the AFB that uses the old spelling -- and the guy next to me is looking up Juicy bars on his phone; his brother trained here and he’s really into the idea of paying women for sex, women he doesn’t even have enough shared language with to negotiate a pizza order, so how could they possibly consent? It’s really gross.
> 
> It’s against base rules for him to go to the Juicy Bars, but I have no idea how well that’s being policed. It gives me the creeps. It’s one of the reasons so many guys lose money on deployments like this, they spend all their money in bars and on toys. But I would never go to those bars, and like I said, I’ve been learning to cook, so I’ve actually saved up some real money. Like, enough money that I can fly home to see you in August and we can stay at a motel for a whole week, money. Maybe even used-car down payment money. It’s something special, knowing I could be independent when I leave the Air Force. That I could take care of us.
> 
> Anyway, there’s good things and bad things about every place. My training is going really, really well. They’re telling me about taking classes online at a real school, then doing Air Force ROTC for 22 months and then commissioning as an officer. But I’m not planning on that; I’m coming home to you. I remember my promise.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex
> 
> PS: I can’t wait to see you in August.

\--

 **June 2nd 2009**  
Kunsan AFB, South Korea

“Alex, you’ve got a call.”

Alex was awake, perfectly and entirely awake in a way he’d realized the first day at BMT only the boys who’d known what it was to sleep unsafely got. He was sitting up, checking the wall-clock, heart beating brass down his bones. 1:55am; he’d had 90 minutes of sleep. He grabbed his cover, shoved his feet in his boots, and followed Jimmy down the hallway to the little watch room.

The watch sergeant was a pissed-off looking 35, but handed him the phone as he squeezed into the tight space with him and Jimmy: “You have 5 minutes or I report it. You’re not supposed to get personal calls.”

“This is Airman Manes.”

“Alex! Oh god, Alex -- “

“Maria -- what’s going on?”

“It’s Michael -- he got kicked by a bull --”

“A steer --” he heard, muffled in the background, then a groan of pain.

“I think it broke his leg, he can’t stand without falling, and he won’t go to the hospital and it’s been hours and _I don’t know what to do_ ,” Maria sounded near sobbing and Alex tried to understand through the howling wind of his mind what was going on.

“Michael -- Michael’s hurt?”

“Yes, Alex,” she near-shouted, “And he won’t go to the doctor!”

“No doctors!” Michael was sounding slurred, like he’d been trying to self-medicate the pain away. Alex felt nauseous and his heart tripped; he could smell the whiskey through the phone.

“He can’t afford the doctor,” Alex said, voice infuriatingly even, closing his eyes and turning away from the desk sergeant who was watching with undisguised interest. He covered his face and thought through his paystubs; he couldn’t pay for a trip home and a medical bill, but Michael needed to be able to walk to work, to live. It was an easy call. “I’ll send money. As soon as the bank opens, I’ll send money.”

“I don’t think it’ll help,” Maria gasped into the phone, “He says he still won’t go.”

Alex closed his eyes, feeling something hard come down across his heart. “Call Max Evans.”

“Max -- why would Max Evans help?”

“He’s Michael’s brother; he’ll be able to convince him. He got him the summer job at Foster’s, he knows how to talk Michael down..”

“He’s -- _what?_ ”

Alex shook his head, damning the Evanses for the hundredth time for how they left Michael high and dry, over and over and _fucking_ over again.

“Just -- call him. He’ll know what to do. If he doesn’t, call me tomorrow.”

“Can’t you talk just to him?”

Alex looked at the watch sergeant. “I don’t think I can, Maria.”

There was a choked sound. “Oh.” Then a deep breath. “Ok.” She sounded steadier. The voice on the phone got a little further away, like Maria had turned her face towards Michael. “He says to call Max.”

“Fuck,” Michael slurred. “You’re a fucking narc, Alex!”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Maria --”

“Yeah?” He heard her close to the phone again.

“Tell him,” he looked the duty sergeant straight in his pale gray eyes, “I’m sending enough so he can heal for two weeks and then back to the ranch. And thank you for calling me, Maria. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Maria said, and in the background Michael slurred: “Hey, wait tell Alex I --”

And Alex hung up the phone.

The sergeant accepted the phone with a lazy reach. “What was that all about?”

Alex adjusted his uniform. “My girlfriend’s friend got hurt.”

The man rolled his eyes: “What was she expecting you to do about it? It’s not like you can go home.”

Alex’s breath caught in his chest; but he had a lifetime of older white men saying ugly things to him and this was nothing fucking new. “She needed advice and I gave it. It’s what people who love each other do.”

“And you’re sending her your paycheck.”

Alex shook his head, easing around the man’s bulk with a wry smile: “At least I’m not spending it at Juicy Bars or on fake-ass Samurai swords.”

The man narrowed his eyes. _Bullseye_ , Alex thought. It wasn’t a good idea to antagonize the older men on base but fuck if he cared at 2am. He jerked his head at Jimmy and they started walking back to their barracks.

“Is your friend gonna be ok?” He asked and Alex felt himself become like stone. “He’s my girlfriend’s friend,” he repeated. “He works at a ranch and a steer kicked him in the leg. She thinks,” his voice cracked and he got it under control, “she thinks it might be broken.”

“That’s a tough break,” Jimmy said, “I mean -- bad luck.”

Alex closed his eyes, hand trailing along the many-times-painted wall, finding every bump and fist-hole-sized patch job. “Yeah, it is.”

“Why’s it your responsibility to pay for his medical care?” Jimmy asked voice neutral.

 _Because I love him_ , Alex thought. _Because he was going to go to college before my father broke his hand and he wouldn’t let me help him then either, not that I could have._ Alex gritted his teeth. _Because if I can’t be there, at least my paycheck can._

He forced a smile on his lips: “Like I said to the sergeant -- it’s not like I’m spending it anyplace else. Why not help someone I grew up with, someone who’s like family to my girlfriend?”

Jimmy shook his head. “You’re too nice for your own good, Alex.”

Alex thought of hanging up on Michael before he could say ‘I love you.’

“That’s really, really not true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are life! Thank you so much to everyone who read this!
> 
> If you want to chat, come and hang out with me on tumblr: https://jocarthage.tumblr.com


	4. 2009 [108,770]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the playlist Alex makes for Michael: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUf_75Sh4J4z3tGWQXaKchqpzTEIuNja4
> 
> I'll move to spotify playlists soon, but I figure this is period-appropriate.

> **Sent: June 4th, 2009**  
>  From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> Sorry for freaking you out with the whole steer thing. Max figured out he overreacted, it was just a bad bruise. He was walking the next day. He tried to reverse the PayPal transfer, but it kept coming through -- god you’re stubborn. He went right back to work.
> 
> Anyway, the sunsets are beautiful out here, as always. Blue and grey right at the end. I miss you a lot.
> 
> It’s so weird he and Max are related; I didn’t know that and I’ve known Max since elementary school. Michael’s so open sometimes and so closed off other times. It’s hard to get my head around sometimes. Nothing like you, you’re always an open book to me :D.
> 
> Stay safe,
> 
> M--

\--

> **Sent: June 4th, 2009**  
>  From: Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I wanted to give you an update. His leg is a lot better, and he’s real sorry you had to use your flight home money for it. He’s gonna pay you back as soon as he can.
> 
> I love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **Sent: June 18th, 2009  
> ** From: Kunsan AFB, South Korea
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Please tell him to not worry about it. With the extra cash I saved not flying home this week, I was able to sign-up for extra summer classes. I should be able to get started on my AA a lot faster now. I still miss you so much, it’s like there’s weights on my chest.
> 
> Also, I got my clearance! It was pretty fast, looks like they might need our team for something.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

> **Sent: July 4th, 2009  
> ** From: Kunsan AFB, South Korea
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I tried a new drink today, one of the guys was holding a 4th of July party. It’s called a Manhattan. I don’t know why. It looked nothing like the city. It’s -- I mean, I liked the cherry on top. I liked the whiskey, and I think you would too.
> 
> We heard where our next assignment was going to be.
> 
> The guys said we had to celebrate our unit getting picked to go, that it meant we were the best, and the thing is, I just wanted to call you. To tell you. And by the time you get this, I would have. I did. I will have done?
> 
> English is hard.
> 
> God, I wish you were here. I wish I could hold you tonight, tuck my head under your chin and just -- let the world swirl around us for a bit. 
> 
> I think you’d like it.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

 **July 5th, 2009**  
Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

“The Wild Pony, our Monday night special is the sarsaparilla spritzer, how may I help you?”

“Maria?”

Maria cupped her hand around the receiver, ducking down behind the bar to get away from the stomping boots and smacking pool balls and the drunken laughter.

“Alex? What --”

“We got our orders.” Alex said, voice crackling over the international connection. It was $3 to connect and $.50 a minute, and Maria could see the dollars ticking down out of her paycheck, but Alex wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.

“Iraq?”

“Yeah.”

Maria felt like someone had stomped on her chest; she forced herself to sound calm: “You’ll be at Qayyarah Airfield West, in Kurdistan. It’s mostly safe there, Alex. You’ll be fine.”

There was so much noise, but Maria could make-out: “I -- I can’t say where I’ll be.”

“I know, that’s why I told you. So you know I know.”

“Can -- I’ve got a month before we go, can --”

“I’ll make sure we have a good going away party for you. Sunday. Call at noon.” She took a breath. “How’re your online classes going?”

“Good, I couldn’t get into the English class so I’m taking more math. It’s not as bad as when Mr Miller taught it.”

She gave a wet laugh, “It couldn’t get much worse. Remember when he measured your paper with a ruler, trying to dock you points for formatting?”

There was a ghost of a chuckle: “Yeah, and he had to give the points back because I was _right_.”

Maria swallowed, blinking her eyes closed, feeling her lashes get damp. “I’ll make sure everyone here who loves you knows.”

Alex choked: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I was waiting to do it in person, but --”

“Alex.” Maria interrupted. “What did you promise?”

"What?"

"In Tucson, what did you say?" 

Michael had told her, in the quiet over dishes. She heard Alex take a long breath. “I’ll live; and I’ll come back to you.”

“When I see you, say it to my face, what you wanted to say.”

“Ok." Another breath. "Ok. I’ll call Sunday?”

“Noon, right on the dot. I love you.”

“Thanks, Maria.”

\--

 **August 8th, 2009**  
Qayyarah Airfield West aka Q-West

In the stillness of a desert night unlike any desert night Alex Manes had ever lived through before, he craved a body next to his. He craved it like he’d craved touch and food and sanctuary, like something he’d gotten so used to and had no idea how to live without. It felt -- it was deep in his stomach, across his arms, in the space where his legs kicked against the metal ridges of the set-it-up-yourself single-sized cot. It was so small, this space in the big tent, just sheets of white plastic between him and every other member of his new unit. He knew it was big enough for him, for him to sleep in, to fall into, but it was also -- not enough. Not enough space for how he _wanted_ to be.

Then there were the bombs. Far off, but they were there. They were less like a sound and more like a feeling, a shove inside his chest, over and over and over again. The sound of planes, dropping down, climbing up _hard_. The sweep of the searchlights from the guard towers over the old palace, the old airfield beside it.

70 miles south was Mosul. He'd flown over it, a couple of times this week. It was -- Mosul was a city, first and foremost. A city, kind of like Phoenix, but full of buildings that were much, much older. The signs he'd seen pictures of in the briefings were half in English, half in Arabic -- because Arabic was written right-to-left, the logos would just start on the right, end in the middle, then the English would start on the left and end in the middle.

There were so many familiar smells on the base. Coffee and heat coming off of parked cars, dust and diesel -- it smelled like Michael, parts of it. The smell of bodies in thick clothing, to protect them from the sunshine and the chill.

His intake officer had been here in 2003, had three tours here.

Alex got up in the full dark, getting fully dressed with his kevlar and lacing his boots, then wrapping his coat around him, the thick warm one he’d brought to Kunsan. He put his keys in his pocket, the pressure of them against his palm stinging and good; they were rarely far from his skin now. He knew it was late and he’d have to be up early. He just couldn't lay down and listen to other men breathe for another minute. He worked his way outside, walking down the dirt path between the big tents until he found a bit of shadow and sat in the dirt, taking out his keys and pressing the teeth into the tight muscle of his palm. He heard the crunch of boots behind him and he tensed his jaw, ready to stand and salute and apologize -- but then someone just flopped down in the dirt beside him.

“First night?” It was his intake officer, Captain Kitty Kelly, the one who’d shown him and all of the other new arrivals the camp.

“First week; close enough.”

She nodded. “Nothing but time will make it better. At least the mail comes through regular.”

Alex stuck his thumb in the latch of his keychain, digging the metal in a little. “I have -- my girlfriend writes me. She,” and he felt a smile creeping across his face. “She works on a ranch and at her Mom’s bar. She can’t write every week, but she tries really hard.”

She smiled. “Good. It’s good to remember there’s a world out here.”

He swallowed. “I’m from a place like this, in the desert.”

“I’m from Tampa, but this place grew on me. It’s a beautiful country.”

Alex nodded. “I -- can I ask you a stupid question?”

She cocked her head. “Sure. You’re, what, 19?”

“Yeah?”

“So everything’s new and shiny to you. You should ask as many questions as you possibly can.” She tipped her head back. “I wish I’d asked more. So sure, kid. Shoot.”

“If I work with women who wear the full face coverings, how do I tell them apart?”

She huffed a laugh. “That’s what you want to know? Not how to get booze or get rich quick or whatever idiot thing your unit is planning?”

Alex frowned a little, looking up at the unfamiliar stars. “I just want to do my job, protect my team, and get home in one piece. But I -- this is their country. I want to know how to be respectful, and everything we learned is about manners when interacting with men, nothing about women. I figured you might know.”

Her smile faded a little, to a look of consideration. “Well, you won’t be getting off base. Airmen don’t go beyond the wire at ground level much at all, particularly not guys as fresh as you.” She held up her hand. “But let’s say you end up at Al-Udeid next and go into Doha or take classes in that new Education City thing they’re setting up or something. You’re right, there is a trick to it. And I’ll tell you, and answer any other questions you might have, both because I think you deserve to know, and because that’s one of the better questions I’ve had anyone ask on their first tour.” She smiled a little. “The trick to talking to telling women apart is to look in their eyes.”

“What?”

The intake officer shut her eyes, shaking her head, hair still in a tight, blond, regulation ponytail. “No matter where you are, I don’t think a lot of them will talk to you, but you’re quieter than the other men, so they might get the hang of being around you. Most of the women don’t cover in Mosul, and those who do usually cover just their hair. You’ll get used to telling Egyptian from Iranian from Iraqi hijab styles, if you have the eye for that sort of thing.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I would?”

“You took notes during the tour, made yourself a little map. Most people stare at me, fish-faced; but you took it seriously. It shows you care about details. Being able to tell, it’s a skill, just like cleaning a gun, being able to tell where people are from by how they dress. People who take notes tend to be better at it than people whose lives are, say, a little more gross muscle movement focused.”

He gifted her with a half of a smile, a grimace that she seemed to take for what it was; not everyone could be chipper after their first week sleeping on a cot.

“Ok, you were saying about their eyes?”

Kelly nodded. “Ok, so, even the guys who can get the hang of talking to women here, they usually chicken the fuck out about talking to women wearing niqabs --”

Alex quirked an eyebrow and she answered: “The face-coverings.”

She sighed, cricking her neck back and forth. “It wasn’t a thing here, in the ‘80s much. I’ve seen the pictures in General Schwartzkopf’s autobiography. But fashions change and religious feelings change and when you’re being invaded, sometimes you want to wear your culture a little more publicly.”

Alex glanced around, voice low: “Sort of like the American Indian Movement led to more people changing their names to native American names, naming their kids less Anglo-sounding names?”

She glanced over at him, assessing. “Yeah.”

She took a breath, reorienting. “So, if you meet someone, who is willing to talk to you despite all the,” and she waved to his uniform, haircut, boots, “And she’s wearing a niqab, the trick is to look her in the eyes. You can tell a lot about a person’s feelings through their eyes. You can’t see her body language under the bulkier abayas and such, but if you look her in the eyes, you’ll be able to tell.”

He nodded, frowning, trying to impress this into his memory.

Kelly quirked him a half-smile. “The women, they can always tell each other apart. Everyone will have different shoes or a button or eye-liner or eyeshadow or a particular design on their abayas or niqabs. They can track the details because they’ve practiced; so, practice, and you’ll get the hang of it.”

Alex shook his head. “I think you’re right, I don’t think I’m going to get a lot of chances to interact with civilians in this tour.”

Kelly cocked her head. “Well, you could roll it that way. But you don’t have to. You can volunteer to liase with the Iraqi government, work with their coders. We have allies on the inside and the more the government works with us, the faster we’ll win.”

She gave him a bright, fake smile: “That’s what we’re all here for.”

Alex pasted on the same kind of fake smile. “Sure, yeah.”

She tilted her head: “But you need sleep. You should go try to get used to that cot, Airman.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard one, and levered himself to standing. “Alright, thank you Captain.”

“For sure. Goodnight, Airman.”

He saluted and she returned it. Then he went back to his cot, keys held soft in his palm, tucked under his chin, trying to fall asleep between two narrow plastic walls.

\--

> **August 9th, 2009**  
>  [Redacted]
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I’m really sorry for not writing you when I first arrived; I think my mail is all messed up, I haven’t seen anything from you yet.
> 
> It’s been -- hard. I’m not with the same unit I was training with for the last year, Jimmy got sent to [redacted I talked some with the intake officer, but mostly I’ve been -- trying to figure out how it works here.
> 
> You know my career field, 1A8X2. You can read what we do. I can’t talk about it, except to say I’m learning a lot more in a week of being deployed than I did in a year of classes.
> 
> God, I miss the commissary and the fresh fruit at Kunsan. I miss the Crashdown. I miss -- 
> 
> Ok, let’s see if I can do this with the three stars. The folks reviewing the mail here, they’re a lot more picky about details. If I call from the little pod where they’ve got the phones set-up, there’s someone else listening on the line, to make sure I don’t talk outside of school.
> 
> And hey, I got one of those generic USO care packages -- a bunch of chocolate bars and some Ritz crackers, some car magazines the other guys really liked, a nice hand-written card by some volunteer in Detroit. So hopefully the mail should get through soon.
> 
> I’m just -- I’m feeling it, I guess. It’s really loud here, packed together, and the feeling of being watched is, it’s a lot. If anyone has an old pair of earbuds, they’ve been out of them here forever, and if you can slip them in an envelope, that will get to me a lot faster than they’ll restock. I’d love to listen to some music, hear something other than planes and shouting guys and the very occasional gunfire.
> 
> I should know when I’ll be back stateside in the next week or so.
> 
> I’m yours, always.
> 
> Alex

\--

> **August 9th, 2009**
> 
> Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I’m really sorry for not writing you sooner. I -- I was hit pretty hard, you getting deployed so fast. I hadn’t realized how much I’d had my heart set on seeing you before you left. Do people really call it the sandbox, or is that just on TV?
> 
> I’ve read a lot of USO pages about how to be a good Air Force spouse, if that’s an ok way to talk about it. I’m supposed to encourage you, not tell you when things go wrong, make sure you know you’re loved, make sure you know what normal looks and feels like.
> 
> And -- I can do that. I can tell you about the calves I helped birth and how little and wobbly they were; I can tell you about seeing coyote pups running around the edges of the land we’re working on and how business-like and professional they are. I can tell you I love you.
> 
> I can tell you about how Max got into the Sheriff’s Academy and Isobel has started to build her own events business. I can tell you how proud of them I am, even though I’m kinda dreading seeing Max in a uniform.
> 
> But, I remember I used to get these little handwritten cards with those Giving Tree trees at the supermarket, when I’d get some jacket or something from a family wanting to give to someone who was less well off than them. I remember seeing all these “buck up!” “it’ll get better!” things and they just made me feel -- feel like I had a gag around my mouth. It felt like, if everyone around me was cheery, I was bad and wrong for having uncheerful thoughts about a shitty situation.
> 
> So, can you, tell me what you need? What would help? I want to be there for you, and if what you want is chipper, I’ll do my fucking best.
> 
> I love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **August 23rd, 2009**
> 
> Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I got your letter and of course, I went to Walgreens and got you 3 different little earbud sets that should work with the computers there. They’re all tucked into this envelope. That’s really exciting you’ll know when you get to come home.
> 
> I read that most Air Force deployments are like 4-12 months, with most being 6 months, so that means you could be back to a state-side location in December or maybe February? It’s supposed to be 5:1, time at home vs time abroad, but who knows how likely the Air Force is to keep that ratio.
> 
> And then you’d only have 2.5 more years to go, that’s nearly halfway done.
> 
> I looked up all of the bases you could be at and if we’re really, really lucky, you’d be at Cannon. But even if you’re all the way in Florida, I can come and visit, you’ll have enough saved up to fly here sometimes. It’ll be a lot easier.
> 
> Ok, I know you’re writing back today or tomorrow, and I’ll see it in two weeks. Until then, I love you.
> 
> M--

\--

> **August 23rd, 2009**  
>  [Redacted]
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Fuck that USO bullshit. I want you to be real with me. If something sucks, tell me it sucks. If you need something tell me. If I need something, I will tell you. That’s what I want. I hope that’s what you want too.
> 
> Let’s see, the mix of connection to reality and distance from it is really weird. Like, we’ve got _American Idol_ and _NCIS_ and _Dancing with the Stars_ here, but the news is always a bit wonky. Everyone knows there’s only one major airfield people are using in Iraq but we can’t say what it is. We’re not allowed to guess what the news means for us, but everyone talks about it all the time. I made a new friend, Charlie. They’re only here for a quick tour, but they’re cool. They’ll be gone by Thanksgiving.
> 
> I learned to sleep on the cots here. I know that sounds like something a baby might be proud of, but not being able to sleep is a real bitch and a half. It makes it harder to do my job, it makes it harder to have time to get to know other people while I’m doing my job.
> 
> The intake officer has been really cool. She basically adopted like 5 of us, calls us her ducklings, makes sure we know how to request leave and understand Permanent Change of Station (PCS) orders, and understand bases and how performance reviews work. It’s pretty great, really gives me a sense of where I am in the world.
> 
> I know there’s a lot going on at home, and not just calves and coyotes. I want to know about it. Did the range rider job stay through the summer? How’s the Airstream? How’re you?
> 
> And, I can’t really get my imagination to work out here, it’s so loud, but, if you can, tell me what we’ll do. When we see each other again. It’ll be in February 2010 and I’ll be in Warner-Robins AFB, in Georgia, starting 2/25, for at least a year, learning a new technology and helping train the next group. I get 2 weeks to move in, so I’ll spend 1 day moving in and 13 days with you. So, a year at Warner-Robins, then I’ll probably be deployed again for 6 months or a year, then finishing up either 6 months or a year, probably somewhere stateside. Unless I get stop-lossed, but that can only be for another year.
> 
> Then I’m done.
> 
> How’re classes going? You were going to sign up at Eastern New Mexico, right? Since the scholarship fell through?
> 
> I’ve never wanted to live in Georgia but I would take it in a bare moment. I can’t wait to see you.
> 
> I’m yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

> **September 7th, 2009**
> 
> Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I told the Fosters I need 2 weeks in February and they are really happy to give it. I’ll see you in Georgia on 2/11. We’ll get to spend our first real Valentines Day together. So, are you a chocolate man or a flowers man xD?
> 
> The Airstream is good, just saving up for some new tires so I can move her. The Fosters said I could start parking her on a back corner of their land, so I can save on parking fees. They’re really good to me, Alex. I don’t know what I did to deserve it.
> 
> I tried to sign-up for classes, but with what happened with the economy, they doubled all the fees. And that’s not even counting textbooks. I’ll be saving up and trying again in January, so for now I can work more hours and get some good saving done.
> 
> I’m -- well, you said you wanted the truth, so the truth is, I miss you like my heart’s split in half. Like there’s this long, thing red string tying between us and I can feel it stretching and flexing everytime the planet moves. I miss you like I miss breathing when I dunk my head in a stream to clean off when I’m out on the range. I miss you like I could die from it.
> 
> Ok, but you asked for what we’ll do. Here’s what I’m thinking.
> 
> ***
> 
> We’ll meet at a motel, say, the Best Western in Warner Robins, GA. I’ll get there the day before you land, stock-up the mini-fridge with everything you’re missing -- fruits, veggies, snacks, anything, Alex. I’ll even bring something for Manhattans, but I’m hoping that was just drunk you being silly (I miss seeing silly you).
> 
> So, you come in the door and you look good. You’re just off a flight, carrying one of those massive military backpacks, and you just want to nap. Well, congratulations, you can nap. We’ll just take off all our clothes and go to the shower, because you probably want the smell of plane off of you. I’ll have nice soap, a soft cloth, and I’ll help you get clean, and you’ll do the same for me. I could wash your hair, if you want; and I can teach you to wash mine. I’ll have tooth brushes, all the good stuff, so it feels like a little home for us, for 13 days.
> 
> Then once you’re warm and dry, we’ll snuggle up under the covers. I’ll hold onto you, or you’ll hold onto me, or we’ll tangle together like octopi -- do you know there’s 3 legal plurals for octopus? Octopi, octopuses, octopodes. English is weird, man.
> 
> And this is the important part -- it might take you a really, really long time to relax. Maybe you’ll want to talk or maybe you’ll want to pretend you're ok or maybe you’ll sleep like you’re ok, but I’ll be able to feel the tension in your back. But I’ll wait. I’ll be there. Whatever it is, whatever it takes. You’ll be carrying it, the pain, the waiting. I know you will. I know I am. And I’ve been working on figuring out how to carry that, but I get to ride horses and touch cattle and honestly, and they're big dumb animals but they're soft, I’m not sure who’s touching you softly right now. I get to be with good animals, good-enough humans. I want that for you too, but I think the only thing you’re caressing is these pages, the only thing you're touching lightly is your keyboard.
> 
> So maybe it will take you a while. A little bit, or days, or the whole time.
> 
> But there will be a moment, and I know it’s coming even if I don't know when, when you’ll _relax_. You’ll fully, completely relax; those lines above your eyebrows will soften, your jaw will loosen, and your shoulders will get easy. And then I’ll know I did my job. Then I’ll know your body knows it's safe, at least for now, at least with me.
> 
> I love you,
> 
> M--

\--

 **October 12th, 2009**  
South of Mosul, 35,000 feet above Iraq

35,000 feet above over the winding Tigris river, Alex and Charlie crinkled the wrappers of USO candy, over and over, as they watched their monitors for signs of hidden bases. The Eden river’s waters were muddy, but all they could hear was the roar of the engines. Charlie yanked Alex’s headset off his ear and shouted: 

“Where are you from?” 

“Roswell, New Mexico,” Alex shouted back, glancing over at the other air crew who were ignoring them, and remembering to bace for alien jokes.

Charlie’s face brightened, blue eyes widening as the plane jerked with the windstream. “I’ve been there!” So much young excitement, Alex was thrilled just to be there for a second, just to see someone so happy in this hard place.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “It was a cool road trip with my Dad and my sister.” She closed her eyes, leaning an elbow on the console. “Bright sky, big sunsets, red dirt?”

“Dumb alien signs, cowboys, bigots and drunks --” Alex shouted back.

Charlie narrowed her eyes, taking this as a challenge: “Stunning mesas, 15,000 years of Native American history, kick ass Mexican food --”

“Racists wearing 10 gallon hats, homophobes at prom, addicted teens driving into trees --”

“Cowboys! Cowgirls! Cafes with silly names and -- there’s a UFO Museum there, right?”

And Alex froze, about to say _Yeah, and you’ll never bet what I did in there_. And he swallowed it back, hot and burning on his tongue. Charlie was nice and all, brave for coming out to him, but -- just because someone shared space within an acronym, doesn’t mean they’ll always be their best selves and have his welfare in mind.

He gave a half-smile and yelled: “I still love people back there. My -- my girlfriend is there.”

And Charlie’s eyes sort-of half-hooded. “A girlfriend, huh?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, mind slipping into the side passage where he kept all of the details he was prepared to give out. “High school sweethearts.”

“Dawwww,” Charlie said, voice saccharine and somehow too, too sweet over the noise. “That’s adorable.”

“Yeah,” Alex shouted back, “She is.”

Charlie tipped her head onto her shoulder, slight-out-of-regulation hair brushing against the canvass shoulder straps. “What’s she like?”

“Oh,” Alex said, glancing down to make sure there were no signals to record. Then he looked out the window to the bright sky beside them, hoping the glare made his expressions harder to read as he felt emotions flickering across his face. “She works on a ranch as a ranch hand. She -- she’s black and my father’s a bigot. Caught us together and broke her hand with a hammer.”

“Holy shit, Alex,” Charlie said, eyes massive: “Holy shit.”

He nodded, shouting: “You’d think having four Native American sons would have given him enough people of color to hate, but, apparently not,” he shrugged. “She’s brave and strong and she does well enough. Her Mom works in a bar, and she’s saving to buy it from the crappy owners.” He closed his eyes. “She writes me all the time. That’s why you’ll see me disappear as soon as mail time comes.”

“Not emails?”

He shook his head hard: “We can, we do, sometimes, but there’s not a lot I can share day-to-day, and she doesn’t have a computer right now. And,” he patted his chest pocket where he was keeping Michael’s most recent letter, the one where he’d promised to hold him until he felt soft. “It means something, more. To have a letter her hands touched, you know?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, looking at him hard for a moment, “Yeah. I could see that.”

She was quiet for a moment, then brightened up again; nothing seemed to keep Charlie down for long.

“I’ve got some pretty stationary my sister sent me; you want some for your next letter? I’ll trade you your computer time when we get back down, since you’re not gonna use it.

Alex grinned and yelled back: “Sure.”

\--

> **November 5th, 2009**  
>  [Redacted]
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> It’s nearly Thanksgiving and fucking _everyone_ is talking about it and I’m the only Native guy on base and jesus, it fucking sucks. It fucking sucks so much. I want to just, like, be away, but it’s the food in the mess, the decorations in the offices, all everyone wants to talk about is who gets to go home and who doesn’t and who wants to see who and who has to cover for who and it _sucks_.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> Please tell me you don’t love Thanksgiving?
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Alex
> 
> \--
> 
> **November 19th, 2009**
> 
> Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> I fucking hate it; we should never celebrate Thanksgiving _every_. Turkey tastes like angry napkins, cornbread is better with chili peppers anyway, and gravy is shit.
> 
> Let’s go camping every Thanksgiving forever.
> 
> Love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **November 20th, 2009  
> ** Wild Pony, Roswell, NM
> 
> Dear Alex,
> 
> Also, it’s gorgeous here. I miss you. I got a little side job to save up for Christmas presents. I’m helping out on cars at the junkyard. Isobel has a new MacBook case on her wish list and Max needs some lessons at the shooting range to pass his next annual test, since he’s a shit shot right now. It’s not fancy work, but the pay is tax free and easy on the wallet.
> 
> So, some couples are all about guessing what to get each other for Christmas. But, the thing is, I’d rather know? I can guess for you, but if it was ok, I’d rather we just tell each other.
> 
> Love,
> 
> M--
> 
> PS: I want you home, but barring that, can you make me a mixtape? Just tell the the songs you want me to listen to, I can make a YouTube playlist.

\--

> **December 4th, 2009**  
>  [Redacted]
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> I never even thought about just telling someone what I want for Christmas. What a fucking brilliant idea.
> 
> Can you make me a guitar pick? There’s always a guitar somewhere around here and I could put it on my tags when I’m in the field. With our initials maybe?
> 
> I want to make sure you get your present on time, so here’s the playlist:
> 
> Kings Of Leon - Use Somebody
> 
> Santigold - Lights Out
> 
> MGMT, "Kids"
> 
> Shinedown, "Second Chance"
> 
> Linkin Park, "New Divide"
> 
> Green Day, "Know Your Enemy"
> 
> Owl City, "Fireflies"
> 
> Muse, "Uprising"
> 
> Linkin Park, “Shadow of the Day”
> 
> I used that website you told me about, made a play list out of them: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUf_75Sh4J4z3tGWQXaKchqpzTEIuNja4
> 
> They do have so much music! But they didn't have everything. One of my new friends, Charlie, showed me this one and I think you'd like it a lot: bootiemashup.com/bestofbootie2009
> 
> I’m yours,
> 
> Alex

\--

 **December 18th, 2009  
** Wild Pony, Roswell, NM

> Dear Alex,
> 
> One guitar pick, carefully packed and included!
> 
> I’m going to be greedy and ask for something else. Can you bring me something small, something from another country? Something that you’ve carried around with you. Maybe you could pick out a cool rock, and carry it around with you?
> 
> The only catch is: I want to have it from your hands. So if that means I get my Christmas present in February or June if something changes, that is fine. 
> 
> Just as long as I get it from you.
> 
> I love you,
> 
> M--

\--

> **December 24th, 2009**  
>  [Redacted]
> 
> Dear M--,
> 
> Christmas is never easy for me, and I don’t have a lot of good memories of it. So I’m probably better suited than most to living through this part. 
> 
> But it’s hard. Seeing all this holiday stuff, all this family stuff everywhere.
> 
> At least I don’t have to be at my Dad’s house.
> 
> I’m sad I’m not with you, but I’ve got that pick you sent; thanks for drilling a hole in it, it’s on my keychain now.
> 
> I’ll see you in February. At the Best Western. I’ll write more if I can, but I’m going to try to go and sleep some until my next shift; it's been 12 x 12s -- 12 hours of working, 12 hours off, but it's not really off, since it's so loud here right now. I'm wiped.
> 
> I hope you’re warm and loved and comfortable.
> 
> I’m yours,
> 
> Alex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a bit more about Alex's career field: https://www.reddit.com/r/AirForce/wiki/jobs/1a8x2
> 
> Comments are life! Thank you so much to everyone who read this!
> 
> If you want to chat, come and hang out with me on tumblr: https://jocarthage.tumblr.com


End file.
